


Amen.

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, negative religious views
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8141035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: This is faith. This is love. This is community, crafted on the values of he who is without sin casting the first stone, loving thy neighbour as thy loves thyself.
The stained glass windows send shards of light across the maroon carpet, attempting to imbue a sense of enchantment into empty rituals that held none of their own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 5+1 challenge on dw. 
> 
> @veryfern: Five times Chara lied, and one time they didn’t.
> 
> Forewarning that this takes a very critical perspective towards religion as a whole.

* * *

 

**i. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit.**

 

* * *

 

The only good thing in a church, Chara found, was the large, stained glass window that left tints and shades of color across the floor, dipping into the shadows of the stairs leading up to a needlessly blank altar. When the sun was sitting just right, even the white cloth covering cold stone wasn’t spared; it lit up in the gloom, taking on shapes and patterns that drew their eye and kept their focus when nothing else could.

The actual composition of the glass (though composed in an expert fashion with a reverent hand) wasn’t nearly as impressive to their mind’s eye, unfortunately. Just another imposing image of a very pale, very European man, holding a lamb and surrounded by equally inexpressive followers. All kneeling, of course. They tried to pretend there was some kind of otherworldliness to the way the man was posed; more than just a shepherd, more than just a carpenter. The sun shone through the expressive blues and purples of his robe, reflecting vividly as fabric shifted around them, a crowd of bodies moving in unison to give praise.

_May the Lord be with you,_ murmured the priest. Once more in unison, lips part over a well-known response, one that comes without expression. Words that flow without thought.

_And also with you,_ they whisper.

Their knees ache, the rough texture of the carpet leaving bright red idents in the skin, shifting as much as they dare for comfort. Not as daring as they’d like to be. Not even remotely willing to bring attention to themself.

On either side of them- in the rows behind as well- children of varying ages join them in differing stages of inattention and feigned solemnity, far too many at an age that couldn’t possibly comprehend the concepts being thrown at them. Men walking on lakes, turning water into wine. Rising from the dead, to absolve them of their sins.

To the left of them, a child they know only vaguely- from nights spent freezing over their choice of fork (salad? shrimp?)- moves in a manner that draws far too many eyes. Picking his nose during prayer. They highly doubt he’s doing so in the pursuit of some sense of reverence lodged up his nasal cavity, and if the continued looks his teacher shoots his way is any indication, they’re not alone in this assessment. He’ll go home in tears today, knuckles adorned with red and purple marks in varying degrees of severity. A gift from a ruler that snaps on the third blow, brought down so hard that wood decides to buckle before his fingers do. What awaits him at home will be worse.

And yet, the stained glass window sends shared of colored light across the ground, attempting to add a sense of enchantment to rituals that hold none of their own. Every week, they come here. Every second day, at morning, or noon. Every time it’s decided by higher powers that their education should be halted for stories and parables that are repeated time after time, that never hold the same meaning for long. To mumbled sayings, to hollow words that are spoken back.

This, they tell them, is love. This is faith. This is community, crafted through the blameless being those to cast the first stone, in loving thy neighbor as thy love thyself.

Church is a place of refuge. No evil can enter there. A holy sanctuary that protects the innocent and the meek, that is imbued with the righteous blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

They had believed in it, once. They had believed; the tiny burn of hope lodged in their chest that led to knees being imprinted with the pattern of the carpet, clammy hands remaining clasped at chest height. Unwavering eyes watching for the exact moment the confessional box became unoccupied, kneeling regardless of the flames igniting on their back and the building acid in their throat.

Belief so strong it led to anxieties of its own. No rosary beads between small fingers. No bible. They weren’t allowed outside on weekends, and yet there they were, agony swallowed behind breathless, quiet prayer. _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name…_

Even the lost were accepted in His flock. Even the wretched could be saved. Even the ones who were running out of time, truth spilling from their lips in the hush of confession, the wooden, patterned screen all that rested between them and humanity.  

Belief so powerful that they’d believed, for a moment, in redemption. That there was another chance for them, that there was a Being so powerful it could hear even them.

Until they left that box with instructions for fifteen Hail Mary’s, blankly watching the colors of His robe shift and dance across maroon carpet as the sun set on that one chance. Before it was time to go home.

It was the last time they called for help.

 

Nobody came.

 

_In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,_ the priest intones.

_“Amen.”_ They whisper.

 

* * *

 

**ii. And you’re never waking up**

 

* * *

 

 

The Dreemurrs were beyond belief in their kindness. From the moment they were capable of getting out of bed, they had waited for the tables to turn, skittish, whenever they brought their plate to the kitchen to be washed. Jumping at every loud sound and smiling wider- so very, very wide when concerned voices enquired over their wellbeing. Were they okay? Would they like to lie down?

They spend a proportionately large amount of their time beneath the bed, staring at the build-up of dust until Asriel comes to persuade them out with the promise of crayons and paper, sweet treats and fairy tales. He’s the same age as them, but the divide feels almost painfully visible; his fascination with myths and _parables_ causing them to glance away with barely concealed sneers. He clasps their hand between his own, and the feel of it is white hot up the length of their wrists, the dividing line between what he is and what they know displayed in secret in the middle of the night through streaks of red and detached attention.

Their knife, cleaner than when they’d arrived, is secreted away between the wall and their new mattress, forcing them to allow Asriel to take the edge of the bed closest to the door and easiest to climb out of, lending itself to sleepless nights. They’re hyper aware of the way his chest rises and falls in the pitch black, tension rising in their shoulders and neck until the urge to scream is paramount.

The day they get their own bed is one of guilt ridden relief; they can’t bear the constant closeness they’ve been forced to culminate with him, regardless of the soft curiosities he brings. The two of them have been corralled into spending time in the front yard; nothing of interest aside from a dying tree that sheds every leaf it grows, and the pile of toys Asriel thinks to bring that don’t interest them at all. As is usual, whenever they’re alone, they spend their time watching him, knees pulled to their chest as they sit half hidden in the bushes. Tucked out of sight enough that they have the pleasure of watching monsters drift in and out of the house, without being watched in turn.

Or perhaps they’re simply pretending not to see them, seeing as Asriel is playing a mere three feet away.

For some reason, he’s intent on creating his raggedy toys a shelter of twigs and dried leaves, so obstinate in his declaration that they needed somewhere dry to sleep that they can’t find it in themself to remind him that they’ll only be out here for another hour, at best, never mind overnight. It’s so needlessly pointless that they watch with a dull sense of apathy, wondering what he’ll do when all his hard work proves as useless as they think it is.

They’re so tired that they fall asleep there, still watching him push dried leaf after dried leaf onto stick after stick, until the sticks turn to knifes and he keeps going anyway, ignoring the way the blood wells up on the cuts that they create on his hands and arms, ignoring the pool of red that builds up around him until it coats every inch of his fur and he becomes taller, crueller. Grimace of rage forever frozen onto his face as they push and feel his chest give and push some more and _it’s not their fault, it’s not their fault-_

“Chara!” They jolt awake with their chest filled to burst, wheezing on choked out breaths as a palm bigger than their head keeps them steady, soft crooning in their ear as they shudder and gag. Their entire body is caked in sweat, and what would be a comfortable warmth is almost stifling, the phantom sensation of their body caving in on one side leaving them incapable of more than an unintended keen. “Chara, my child. It is just a bad dream. You are here now.”

It takes far too long to recognize the face in front of them as Toriel’s- longer still to associate that stifling, uncomfortable warmth with the fire they’d been so fascinated with only nights before, sticking both hands inside and watching as the flames licked at their skin with the comfortable heat of a warm bath settling into their bones.

“It was just a bad dream,” She croons to them over and over, and the hand on their chest moves away once it becomes clear that they’re capable of holding themself up. Incapable of words, they simply nod, over and over and over until that large paw returns, grasping their chin and helping them stop.

That's right.

 

It was just a bad dream.

 

* * *

 

  **iii. Anything you can do, I can do better**

 

* * *

 

 

“Shhh!” Asriel whispers, and they roll their eyes, biting their tongue against the retort building in their throat- his stifled giggles are louder than anything in the house right now, and besides; mother and f- Asgore are out, attending to the needs of the kingdom as their titles demand.

They’ve been doing that more and more, as of late. It works for now, since with the two of them here, their sense of disbelief that they can look after themselves is mollified, somewhat. Their good behaviour over the past few months (short sleeves. No more need for thick bandages, hiding a trail of half healed scabs and magic-infused balms) turns the tide in their favour, and at eleven years old, they have the right to a mobile in their pocket and a phone call every second hour, reminding them that their elders are simply a message away, if needed.

(Additionally, though they don’t breathe a word of this to Asriel, the castle walls have more ears than Toriel and Asgore assume. They know now; of workers who fill its halls during the day, and of those trustworthy enough to come to their aid should Asgore and Toriel not be capable of returning in time. The cage is larger, but the implied freedom is false.)

The cold tiles are a pleasant sensation on bare feet, scuffing over the surface in a way that feet padded by fur never will. They’ve grown accustomed to the sounds that only they make, self-consciousness pulled away from them in the same way Asriel pulls on their arm now, practically dragging them to the fridge with all the impatience that only a closeted, spoiled child could show.

Sometimes, they begrudge him that. It’s easier to shove down than it used to be, swallowed as he opens the fridge, beaming at you in conspiratorial camaraderie.

They might as well be doing some amazing act of espionage, instead of trying to bake without permission. They consider the mess the kitchen would undoubtedly be in by the time Toriel gets home, and Asriel rolls his eyes when they grimace.

“It’s just a pie.” He says reasonably. “How hard can a pie be?”

“Neither of us know, as neither of us has ever made one.” They retort in a placid tone, an upward twitch of their lips belying any potential for annoyance on their part. He flaps a fluffy hand their way, deciding moments later that they’d be more useful if they held a carton of eggs.

The kitchen, as they’d assumed, becomes a disaster zone within minutes. They’d collected each ingredient in turn, bouncing off each other as they recalled every instance of watching Toriel create one of her perfect masterpieces, and when it comes time to sift the flour, Asriel winds up flinging a good portion of it over himself and the floor. Somehow, they manage to drop and egg, too. Two sets of eyes stare down at the goopy mess on the floor, before promptly deciding in unison to ignore its existence entirely. Next is the milk.

And then they hit a snag.

“Butter!” He’s been trying to snap his fingers like they do for months, now. The resulting found as his fur rubs together is so far from the desired product that they wind up snorting at him inelegantly, gaining an elbow to the side for their efforts. “C’mon Chara, this is serious! We can’t make a pie without butter.”

“Yes we can.” They say promptly, watching with growing smugness as his attention goes straight to their face. It’s nice, knowing things that he doesn’t. In comparison to the education they’ve had, he’s still months ahead of them in numeracy and literacy, and the ability to hold something over his head never fails to make them feel better about it. “We just have to make a substitute.”

“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t look convinced, folding his arms with a puff of white powder, slowly drifting down to the floor in the filtered light that drifts down from the barrier. “ _What_ substitute.”

“Buttercups, obviously.” They tell him, not a note of hesitation to be found.

“Really?”

“Of course. Are you doubting me, Asriel?”

  


They couldn’t have known.

 

They never stopped being sorry.

 

* * *

 

**iv. As is customary for those who’ve made it this far**

 

* * *

 

 

They aren’t allowed out on their own often, but polite requests and equally outstanding behaviour eventually wins out. As per usual, Asriel doesn’t talk to them for the entire morning prior to setting off; sulking at their insistence in going to Waterfall alone. It’s not so they can wander about all day and boondoggle, they tell him sharply. They want to visit someone.

His mood only worsens, at that.

Asgore escorts them wall the way to the Riverperson in Hotlands, not looking remotely uncomfortable despite the blistering heat that causes their sweater to stick to their skin. Their relationship with Asgore has never been the same since he took to his bed for a week; there are some days where they can’t meet his eyes, but thankfully, today is not one of them. They thank him appropriately before saying their destination, content to sit in silence as the possibly alive craft carries them briskly through near still waters, feeling flecks of cold liquid spatter against their face. They revel until it’s over, almost reluctant to put their feet back on solid land; but they’re here to talk to someone, and they promised to text Toriel upon arrival.

Gerson’s shop is enough of a distance away to linger over their surroundings, prior to letting duty call. A short text, and they enter, smiling uneasily at the loud greeting their entrance gains.

The unease, as far as they know, goes entirely unnoticed.

“Well look who it is! I’m honoured, Your Highness.” They’re still not comfortable with that, hours of stuttering into the mirror in an attempt to bolster their confidence wasted, it seems. _My name. My name is Chara. My name is Chara D-_

“What can I do you for, human?” He asks them, not unkindly, and they allow themself the false air of relaxation provided by perching on a rock by the counter, eyes never leaving his face.

“I was hoping you might tell me more about the barrier, mister Gerson. You never finished your story at the party.” The party to celebrate Asgore’s good health, and once again they’re left to shove down a wave of nauseating guilt as the old monster stares at them from over the countertop; old, but still shrewd.

“That old story take your fancy, did it?”

“Yes sir. My p- my parents have never discussed the Barrier with me before.” They brush an imaginary piece of dirt from the front of their sweat, glad that they had convinced Toriel that wearing their ceremonial robes would simply beg for the hems to gather mud with every step they took. They don’t need to see the insignia emblazoned across their chest to remind them of why they’re here. They’ve had months to contemplate it. “I feel there is much I don’t know that’s simply common knowledge, to everyone else.”

There’s so much they don’t know, that’s only whispered behind closed doors. Sleep has never come as easily to them as it has to Asriel, and in the thick of the night, it’s easy to slip out the door to their bedroom; one of the only doors in the house frequently oiled, as to provide them with the comfort to seek out the bathroom when they wish.

Toriel and Asgore hardly sleep, some nights. They hardly dare to breath as they crouch close to the edge of the stairs, picking up bits and pieces of topics that paint a grim picture. The rather of monsters Falling Down is starting to rise. Overcrowding. Lack of sunlight. The frustratingly slow progress upon the Core, the mammoth machine eating up as many resources as the kingdom can afford- more.

Toriel and Asgore hardly sleep, some nights. Most nights, they can’t either.

 

There is so much they don’t know, that’s common knowledge to everyone else.

 

That day is very illuminating.

 

* * *

 

**iv. And we’ll do it together, right?**

 

* * *

 

 

They’d thought that finally having someone to speak over their plan with would be a relief- they were wrong. Asriel grows more and more antsy by the day, grating on their nerves the longer the week progresses. A compromise. He just wanted one more week, to spend time together as they are. They could hardly deny him that.

He’s the one with the flowers.

But it’s getting increasingly tempting to shake their location out of his stupid muzzle. In contrary to their own rigidly calm exterior, he’s incapable of stopping himself from acting out more and more, temper tantrums at breakfast leading to the both of them being sent to their room, as he whines and begs them for one more day. _C’mon Chara, it isn’t fair. It doesn’t count as spending time together if we’re grounded._

He’s stalling. It’s so blatant that they’re disgusted with it, finally snapping one morning in the midst of his usual whinge at the breakfast table, causing Toriel to separate them for the rest of the day. Asriel is sent to the gardens with his father as they spend their own time stowed away in their room, half-heartedly filling blank pages with maths equations, purely to keep up the image that they believe her when their mother says they’ll need such skills, in the future.

They don’t have a future. She doesn’t need to know that yet.

Time is divided in odd mannerisms within the Underground. It had taken them far too long to adjust to the absence of hours in favour of partitioned time sets; this was morning, and next was lunch, then dinner. They spend lunch sipping on piping hot tea as Toriel gently presses them to eat; it’s a common symptom of illness, to lose one’s appetite right before it hits. The way their aching stomach keeps them up at night is well worth the illusion they’re painting; something that would keep suspicions at bay when the kingdom debated over what to do with their body in the weeks to come.

Their body. Thinking about it sends shockwaves through their stomach, an anxiety that pitches straight in their throat intermingling with curling pleasure, almost a sense of peace. It’s not long now, they remind themself on a particularly grating piece of algebra. It’s not long now.

The fact that Asriel returns to their room in tears isn’t surprising, but that fuzzy warmth is nowhere to be found once he does. Pushing away their homework is all they have time for before they’ve got their hands full with wet cheeks and miserable sniffles, shushing him in an automatic fashion as he babbles and whines and pleads for them not to go.

“I don’t like this plan, Chara.” He sobs, and their grip tightens substantially, a metal heart digging into their collarbone. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want you to go.”

“Shh, you’re being ridiculous.” They soothe, fingers combing through white fur. They’ll never tell him, and he’ll never know, but they’re going to miss that too. Feeling how soft he is, stealing touches with their fingers whenever they feel like it. Sometimes they still don’t believe he’s real- it’s pleasing to have such a simple method in proving themself wrong.

That doesn’t mean they deserve it.

“I already told you, didn’t I? It’ll be fine. We’ll be together, won’t we? Together forever.”

They tell him about the flowers and the sunshine over his sobs, about summer fields and bunny rabbits, sly foxes and the peak of a mountain that looks like it’s forever away, when you’re standing at it’s base. They tell him about how they’re going to show him all of it, how he’ll show everyone else for the both of them, and how grateful everyone will be when he’s finally gained them the freedom they deserve.

They tell him they’ll be there with him, in every second of every day.

They never meant to lie.

But, it as it turns out, they don’t have a choice in the matter.

 

* * *

 

  **And one time they didn’t.**

 

* * *

 

They’re hardly helping anymore. Their voice shouldn’t have the ability to shake, but it does as they’re compelled to inform their Partner of every move being made, a childhood fantasy brought to life as Asriel smiles cruelly down at his victim. If their bedroom is just the way they left it, if Asgore really hadn’t moved anything, in all that time, then the top drawer of their dresser was stacked high with images of him- of broad, sweeping wings and vibrant rainbows, exploding stars and guns that had amused them at the time, giving such a literal meaning to the term ‘using bullets as hello’.

He’d been such a small, soft child. And the being that they face now holds no hint of that, cruelty beyond imagining reflected in black eyes as he looms over them, freezing them in place. The world is ending.

You struggle to move your body.

 

Nothing happens.

After everything they’d been through; deaths counted by boredom in part and sadistic fascination in another, the dull agony of seeing what became of the world they’d left behind- _I did this,_ they think, and they think it again as their Partner struggles, as their Partner cries out for help.

They’re waiting for the answer. Waiting for them, waiting for a fraction of a solution that will once again lead to triumph after a series of trial and error, after they’ve re _fused_ more times than even they can count.

And yet they’re dazzled by his presence, in awe of the raw power that he wields without the slightest hesitation, a ringing in non-existent ears that _they did this they did this they did this_

It’s the end. He smiles, lips stretched in an unnatural fashion, and they wonder if he’s aware that he’s failing in his intentions. He’s never had a scary face.

You try to access your SAVE.

 

Nothing happens.

 

You try once again to access your SAVE file.

  


Nothing happens.

 

Looks like SAVING the game really is impossible.

 

They never let him win at things. Vividly, they can remember the monopoly game that had landed in the junkyard, Asgore bringing it home and lovingly recrafting the missing pieces with their willing advice. They’d won every single time, just as they’d won at hide and seek. At tag. At Simon Says and Red Light, Green Light, changing the rules whenever it suited them and reveling in the smug knowledge that he couldn’t possibly know they had.

He’d never one upped them until now. They’d never considered it until the lab, until the writings on the wall that had them more hysterical than anything else they’d seen up till that point, dead quiet as Frisk one again navigated through the empty landscape of what had once been their home, lovingly, agonizingly frozen in time. His bed. Their bed.

So comfortable, they might never get up.

He’s never won over them before. And their Partner yells, so raw and needy in their mind that of course they respond, of course they’re there. Like they always are, as if they had a choice in whether they answer or not. It’s all they have left in the world, this bitter, sarcastic role that has little significance or impact, perfect for someone who breaks everything they touch.

And they always have broken everything they’ve touched.

But…

 

Maybe…

 

Frisk isn’t like them at all. Frisk, looking up at the form that culminates everything they’ve come to know, everything they’ve come to love. Aching to have that returned to them; aching to embrace him in their arms. To fill the cracks they’d left behind, to make things right when they couldn’t.

There’s nobody else. They can’t pretend to care about all those Lost SOULs, can’t pretend that every single one doesn’t deserve it. They think of the woman they thought to call mother, and their- Partner’s chest aches. They think of the man who they might have called father, one day, and-

They’re not sorry at all. They’re not sorry, even when the raw agony of consequences rips through them like a tidal wave, pain stifled and hidden and kept to themself as they struggle, but nothing happens.

But Frisk heals where they don’t.

 

And they want to believe that they can SAVE something else.

Admitting that feels like the first thing they’ve done right in their entire existence. Admitting it is the only thing they have left to hold onto. And so they do.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s no less surprising when it turns out to be the truth.


End file.
